


Cockroaches

by nothingelsematters



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingelsematters/pseuds/nothingelsematters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>At first, being called "the next Plushenko" was an honour and a gift, and it and the bronze medal lay across his shoulders like a cloak, a cloak woven of the finest silk, a cloak Artur bore proudly.</i>
</p><p> <i>As the months and years rolled by, that cloak had grown heavier and heavier, until it was more like an enormous slab of concrete bearing down on his shoulders, crushing him under its weight, a weight that try as he might Artur simply could not throw off.</i></p><p> </p><p>The rise and fall of the one who should have been King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mirror - Narcissus

Artur loves it when people talk about him as “the next Plushenko”. In his mind, he can conceive no greater honour than to be spoken about in such terms; there is no-one greater than Plushenko, so if people say he will be the next one, well.

He lets his hair grow into a style that resembles the mullet that his hero wears, though to his distress, it grows out in floppy waves of gold, rather than silky and straight. He watches every moment Plushenko is on the ice, observing, absorbing. Mishin scolds him for it sometimes, and tells him to go practice, but Artur doesn’t care. It’s like being in the presence of a god.

Then one day, as he is tying his boots, Plushenko comes to talk to the Professor; and Artur cannot help but overhear some of their conversation. “He is sixteen now, papa, he is late to start the quad in competition.”

“He is not you,” Mishin says sternly. “He is almost ready, and it is nearly time. This year he will do it.”

There is no further dispute, at least not that Artur hears; his face burns with shame. _He is not you_. No, he was not him, he was not good enough to be him, but he could try, perhaps, to win something of his respect, to show him that he can be worthy of such training.

The quad comes easily, as all of his jumps have, and Artur trains it, and trains it, over and over until his body is sore everywhere he can think of.

*

Of course, when the time comes, he pops it – not the glorious quadruple toe that he had planned, the jump that could win him all, but rather, an incongruous triple, though held together with enough grace that it does not draw too much ire from the judges.

Artur is deeply disappointed when he finishes, knowing that he could have done better, but Mishin praises him and kisses his cheek, just like he had always done with Artur, just as he has always done with Plushenko, and he tells Artur he is proud of him, and a bronze medal really doesn’t seem so bad.

There are many Japanese reporters about at this event, because the boy who won is Japanese. Artur likes Yuzuru. He is friendly and shy at the same time, and very good, and like him, Yuzuru worships the very ground Plushenko walks on. They sit together on the bus from the rink to the hotel, and talk endlessly about his programs and his statistics and his jumps, and Yuzuru is wild with envy that Artur gets to train on the same ice as him, every day.

They rage together about the unfairness of the Olympic result, at least until the reporters approach Yuzuru and draw him away. For a moment, Artur is left standing on his own, but then Mishin comes and hugs him, and kisses his cheek.

“I am proud of you,” he says.

“But it is only bronze,” Artur replies, and Mishin shakes his head. “And I popped the quad.”

“Zhenya did the same, at his first Worlds,” Mishin explains. “He popped it, and he tried it again, and he fell on it, and ruined his program. You did not let it ruin your program. I am proud of you.”

Artur can’t help but smile, then, and then they are surrounded by Japanese reporters, eagerly asking questions.

And when one of them says, “You were so good today, your jumps, you were just like Plushenko”, Artur beams with pride, and relishes the compliment.

For so it is to him. He is sixteen, and the World Junior bronze medallist, and he can land a quad, and now they are saying he is like Plushenko. It is, for Artur, the highest praise of all.


	2. The Bolt

Artur apologises to Konstantin when the news comes through, the news that their federation had chosen him rather than Kostya for that single spot at Worlds, though Kostya was the National Champion. He’s pleased that Konstantin doesn’t hold it against him; he simply says, “You finished above me at Europeans. Artur, please be careful. You’re too young for this.”

But Artur doesn’t feel too young. Seventeen feels _old_. Plushenko was already a twice World medallist at seventeen! He’s late in comparison. He can handle this – he has to.

He mourns with everyone else when the earthquake, and then the tsunami, hits Japan, and is unsurprised when Worlds is postponed. He keeps training, working hard on his jumps, and Mishin nods approvingly a lot. Yuzuru writes to him, and he is grief-struck and sad, and his hometown is destroyed. Artur writes back, and promises that he will do his very best at Worlds for Yuzuru.

Then it is announced that Worlds will be in Moscow, and Artur feels the first fluttering of nerves. To take the ice _in Russia_ , under the eye of the great King himself? For Plushenko has made no secret of his plans to attend. It will be a great honour, but he must work hard for it. Artur practices and practices until his body is sore.

*

From the moment the ching echoes through the arena, Artur feels strong and confident. This is his music, his style, his country – he will not fail in this task. The quad-triple feels good, just like he’s landed it in practice a hundred times before, and the triple Axel brings a roar from the crowd, a roar that Artur feeds off. For a brief moment, he loses focus, only to be brought sharply back to reality as a jolt of shock and pain shoots through him when his heel hits the ice on the triple loop. It’s enough to frighten Artur into concentrating; if he doesn’t, he might fall, and what will Plushenko think of him then?

But he makes it through the rest of the program, and he is fourth, and Mishin is pleased. “You will do well tomorrow,” he says warmly, and Artur glows. All the way back to the hotel people wave at him, flag him down. It’s like he’s suddenly visible, and Artur basks in the attention.

“Forget everything else,” Mishin says to him the next day. “Forget it all, and just be yourself.”

So Artur does, throwing himself into the character of the Bolt, in all its silly joy. He’s angry at himself for the turn on the three jump combination, but everything else is clean, it’s just like training, and Artur relaxes and begins to enjoy performing for the crowd. He makes it a goal to pull the silliest face he can during the program.

And when he finishes, the roar that rages through the building shakes the roof, the ice, and Artur himself. _Him_. They’re cheering, they’re standing, they’re screaming – _for him_!

Among the chaos, Artur looks up into the stand, and sees Plushenko sitting there, with his beautiful wife. He is _smiling_ – he is _applauding_! The great Plushenko, applauding him, applauding Artur! His heart swells with joy.

Mishin doesn’t have to say how proud he is of Artur; he says it without words, roughly grabbing Artur and kissing him warmly. Artur knows that this means Mishin is happy; he knows it means he has made Mishin proud, and he can hardly help his smile.

The crowd is clapping and chanting for him, but Artur is wondering if they still will be when his scores come up. Will he have made it, will he have done enough?

And then they do come up, and at first it doesn’t register in Artur’s head what it means – he knows it’s a season’s best for him, and a personal best, but was it enough, did it mean –

Then the “2” comes up next to his name, and the crowd erupts, and Artur erupts. Not outside, no, but inside, he explodes in joy and delight, because this means that no matter happens next, he will medal. He will have a Worlds medal, and no-one will ever be able to take that away from him.

“A World medal at seventeen,” the reporters gush, “He is for certain our next Plushenko...”

Artur revels in the praise.

Then Plushenko himself comes down, and places a hand on Artur’s shoulder, and smiles proudly at him, like a proud big brother. “Well done, Artur,” he says. “I am proud of you. You did very well.”

And Artur thinks he will burst with pride. For him, the world is perfect. This is what he’s always wanted, how it was always meant to be.


	3. The Demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter broke my heart all over again. We will never know what really happened, so this is but a wild guess.

Artur is almost surprised, the first time hearing someone call him “the next Plushenko” draws a scowl from his face, rather than a smile. He’s even more surprised when it happens again. But one night, tucked up in bed and attempting to sleep ahead of competition the next day, he realises that the tag he had so long loved and sought for had become something he hated.

He didn’t want to be Zhenya. He wanted to be _Artur_. He didn’t want people to look at him and see only a clone of the King; he wanted people to look at him and see him for who he truly was.

But who was he?

*

The jumps are difficult. Artur is growing; he knows it, and is surprised. He has had his eighteenth birthday this summer, and had thought he was finished growing. Still, it was not an issue, just a surprise. They have been working on and planning the quad loop, but the Professor suggests that they wait until Artur’s body stabilises again, and he agrees.

Nevertheless, he is rather unbalanced at his Grand Prix events. It’s a weird feeling, to have that tiny silver medal, but know that he only finished fifth. Still, it’s not like anyone else has done any better.

Practice is getting weird for Artur, too. Evgeni is unable to help himself; whenever he sets blade on the ice, he lifts his chin, and the normally friendly and generous demeanour vanishes into a cool arrogance. Evgeni is the champion, and he acts like one, and more and more, it begins to grate on Artur’s nerves.

Because more and more, Evgeni is recognising that Artur is no longer that sweet little boy who hung on his every word, and worshipped his every move. Artur knows that at some subconscious level, Evgeni recognises that Artur’s mindset has shifted, from wanting to be him to wanting to _beat_ him, and Evgeni treats Artur accordingly – as a rival, a threat to his dominance.

But as Artur watches him train one day, a tiny seed of self-doubt is planted. Can he really beat the great Plushenko? Can he really hope to set blade to ice and defeat the man who has hardly ever been defeated? Even at this great age he can still jump well, and Artur thinks his jumps are better than his own.

*

Artur’s worst fears come true when they go to Nationals. It is the first time at the Senior level that he has had to skate against Evgeni in competition, and on Nationals ice, with the crowd cheering for his mentor, he finds it rather intimidating. Still, he’s not sure he made quite so many mistakes as the scores indicate, and he doesn’t think the gap between himself and Evgeni was that big.

Mishin is so proud; he has the top two men, and Liza has won the ladies’, as well. And Artur likes this, likes it when Mishin has that puffed-up thrilled expression, likes it when Mishin says he is proud of him; so he puts away the doubt.

But when a journalist eagerly describes him as being “just like Plushenko”, he scowls, and this time, it hurts.

*

Artur knows that plenty of people are confused as to why he isn’t smiling. After all, he is at Europeans, and he is _leading_ after the short program – he has even beaten Evgeni! And he was flawless. The protocol tells him that. Every jump clean and beautiful, every spin and step sequence of the highest level. The quad-triple standing pride of place at the head of the sheet.

And yet for all that, Artur can’t bring himself to smile.

For Evgeni is in second, and the gap between them is no more than half a point. And on any other day, Artur would accept this, recognise the accomplishment. But this is not a regular day. Artur is quietly seething. Evgeni had, uncharacteristically, not done a quad, and especially not a quad-triple. His base value had been significantly lower than Artur’s. And yet, and yet, Artur clung to a slender lead of just half a point.

He pulls himself out of his musing to attend the press conference. Evgeni is in a jolly, happy mood; he proudly talks about Artur’s performance and acknowledges that Artur has beaten him, and at any other time, Artur would be thrilled, but not now.

A fan in the audience asks if Evgeni will marry her, and a fleetingly irrational thought flickers across Artur’s mind – _the fans even love him more than they could ever love me, will it always be so? Will I always be second best?_

Evgeni deflects the question, suggesting she marry Artur instead, and Artur lets everyone think his silence and awkward expression come from shyness, and not from a sudden, overwhelming sense of despair.

 _Why am I feeling like this?_ Dressed in purple in the corner of his mind, The Bolt rages. _You are a World medallist! You are better than this! You can do this!_

_But can I ever beat him?_

*

Artur steps off the ice pleased with himself – just one small error, a little step out on the loop. But he knows that Evgeni has had one of his special, trademark, magical performances, and in his heart, he is unsurprised when the scoreboard shows him in second place. Mishin hugs him, kisses his cheek, tells him he did a wonderful job and he is so, so proud; but Artur knows that Mishin sees it too, sees the impossible ten point gap that does not come from the jumps they do, but that elusive second mark.

_Do they punish me because they do not want a second one of him?_

Evgeni, of course, is effusively happy for both of them; he promises Artur that since he has won this fight, he will buy the drinks tonight, and that their proud performance for Mother Russia should be celebrated properly. Then he kisses Artur’s cheek warmly and says,

“You will make a fine leader for our men at Worlds.”

Artur looks back at him, confused; and then he sees it. Beneath the joy, beneath the smile, the grey ghost of pain haunts Evgeni’s face.

“Aren’t you...”

“No,” Evgeni says. “My knee cannot take it any longer. I need more surgery.”

“Oh.”

Artur doesn’t know what to say, and his mind chooses that moment to say unhelpfully: _this is why you don’t want to be him. You want to be able to walk, you want to be able to run after any children..._

“I would wish you luck,” Evgeni continues, “but I’m sure you won’t need it!”

“I’ll wish you luck instead,” Artur replies.

*

Artur takes to reading that Europeans protocol, again and again. It begins to gnaw at his mind. He had skated so well, and yet...the judges had not agreed. Had he really performed so badly? Or was it as someone had whispered, that they would never like him because he was too much like _him_?

Over and over again such thoughts tumbled through his mind. Even as he exchanges emails with Yuzuru, excitedly looking forward to their first Worlds together, their first major competition against each other as Seniors, his mind is in turmoil. He is the leader. He is so much younger than Sergei, and yet he is expected to lead Sergei? He is expected to be the one that makes sure of the two spots?

And then it’s not just his mind unravelling. Suddenly, none of his training clothes or costumes fit properly; even his skates no longer fit properly, he needs new boots. Mishin gets out his measuring tape, and to everyone’s surprise, Artur is three inches taller now than he was at the start of the season.

Everything hurts.

At first, Artur ignores the pain in his back; it is just a growth spurt, he’ll get through it. But then his new boots arrive, he puts them on, takes to the ice to break them in, and within fifteen minutes, he cannot feel his feet.

 _That’s normal,_ he tells himself desperately. _They’re new, they’re stiff, it’s normal, it’ll be better as you break them in_.

But it doesn’t improve the next day, or the next. And gradually it gets worse, until Artur can be on the ice barely five minutes before he loses feeling in his feet, and ten before he can’t even feel his legs properly. He has no idea where his knee bend is; his jumps have almost vanished into the thin air; how can he expect to land them when he can’t feel his feet?

And he is expected to lead the Russian men –

It all comes to an ugly head one afternoon, just a week before Worlds, after a particularly disastrous training where every jump had been popped. Mishin takes him aside and quietly suggests he should withdraw.

En masse, a jumble of thoughts races through his brain – _I can’t withdraw – I can get through the pain – it’s a symbol of my failure – I have to lead the Russian men – I can’t let people down – they expect me to be him – I don’t want to be him – I need to do well – I need to do well IneedtodowellIneedtodowellIhavetodowellIhavetodowell_

His mind shuts down and goes blank, and for nearly fifteen minutes the Professor cannot get any response from him at all. Just a blank stare at the wall, no thought or movement behind those blue-green eyes, not even a twitch of a well-toned muscle.

Mishin is on the verge of calling somebody when suddenly Artur’s breath starts coming in shallow, rapid gasps; his eyes abruptly come back into focus, but now his tears spill over, and a stream of words tumbles from his mouth; Mishin can’t make sense of any of them, but he knows the symptoms of a panic attack when he sees one, and he seats himself beside this boy he has raised to a main, and pulls the shaking, trembling body into his arms.

After a long time, Artur stops shaking quite so violently, and finally whispers, “I can’t do it.”

“Then withdraw,” Mishin urges, by now frightened; something is horribly, terribly wrong, he knows, but he doesn’t know what it is or how to fix it, and he doesn’t yet know exactly how bad it is.

“I can’t,” Artur replies.

“Yes, you can. We’ll tell them you’re injured – your back still hurts, doesn’t it? You really shouldn’t go.”

“I have to go.”

“Artur, why?”

“Because I have to. And I have to do well.”

The words are mechanical, flat; Mishin again feels the pang that something is wrong, but try as he might, he cannot convince Artur otherwise, and it’s not like Mishin can _force_ him to withdraw.

_Artur’s mind shuts down again at the worst possible time; he cannot feel his legs and now his mind is numb and frozen and will not respond._

_He doesn’t even recall the short program, and only flashes of the free. He doesn’t recall the scores. He doesn’t recall Sergei’s performances._

_But in the echo of his mind one number reverberates. Or two._

_Eighteen._

_Eighteen, and one._

_One spot._

_He has failed._

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse me while I attempt to untangle my anguish over this unexpected turn of events.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Crash And A Bang](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5657299) by [spiralingintochaos (chaoticrandomness)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticrandomness/pseuds/spiralingintochaos)




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